The Time to Live
by EmZaWheezy
Summary: A year after the freeing of Tyr, in the desert world of Athas, a young mul of the Tyrian Guard still obeys the lessons that helped him survive six years in the Brickyards. With the help of a kind shopkeeper, a frayed templar, a flippant guardswoman, and a beautiful young bard, he'll learn how to live, and not just survive.
1. Chap 1- A New Lease

Chapter One: A New Lease

The air was pleasantly cool just before the sunrise.  
Shops were being opened by a motley assortment of  
shopkeepers along the wide thoroughfare that was Caravan  
Street. They and their assistants swept, wiped down  
counters, and raised canopies over open shop fronts. They  
were the majority of people on the street at this hour;  
very few pedestrians were about. Those that were out were  
rather nondescript, for the most part.

There was one man worth noting, however. He was an  
intimidating figure, just over seven feet tall and well  
muscled. Scars laced his hands, and likely his arms, although  
they were not visible because of the long-sleeved cotton  
shirt he wore. He was bald, and each of his ears came to a  
short point, speaking of his half dwarven heritage. A long  
scar stretched from his left temple, over his brow,  
across his arching nose and to the right side of his jaw.  
The slight and unfriendly frown he wore completed the  
image, and strongly discouraged most from attempting to  
strike up a conversation with the rather scary looking man.

If someone were to take the time to_ really_ look at him,  
however, they would be surprised by his youth.  
His cheeks had not yet lost all their boyishness, and his face  
as a whole had an underdeveloped quality to it, as if it  
wasn't quite ready to take the final step from adolescence  
to adulthood yet. His eyes were an odd mixture of green  
and honeyed gold, giving them an oddly gentle somberness for  
someone so intimidating.

He walked alone down the street, his booted feet  
hitting the firmly compacted dirt, with a soft  
thud accompanying each strike of the heel. The sun was still  
below the horizon, and he was nearly halfway to his destination.  
He was making good time, and so he let his mind wander. He liked it  
just before dawn, it was as quiet as the bustling city of Tyr  
ever got. He continued walking, passing someone sweeping the  
front of a shop.

"Hey, kid, catch!"

Something flew towards him, and reflexively his left  
hand shot up from his side and caught it. He brought it up  
to chest level and inspected it quickly. It was a roll of  
fragrant brown bread, the top encrusted with little white  
seeds. Surprised at the gift, he looked up to see who had  
thrown it.

His attention was drawn to the shopkeeper he had  
vaguely been aware of moments before; he was grinning.  
Giving him a proper look now, the large man saw he was a  
short, stocky human in his middling years. He had ruddy  
cheeks and a brown scraggly beard. His brown eyes were  
lively beneath bushy eyebrows.

"Mornin'," he said with a simple nod.

"Good morning," the big man responded, with a great  
deal more trepidation.

The shopkeeper leaned his broom against the wall  
behind him. He wiped one hand on his apron, and extended it  
to the big man, taking a step towards him.

"Name's Rickard, what's yours?" he said with a warm  
smile, pronouncing "Rickard" as "Rickerd".

The big man just stared at the offered hand, unsure as to  
what to do with it. He looked into Rickard's friendly  
brown eyes, and after a moment, he slowly put his own hand  
out.

"Darus. My name's Darus," he said softly.

Rickard grabbed Darus's hand and shook it firmly,  
clapping his free hand over the top of both briefly before  
letting go.

"It's great to meet ya." he said, unperturbed by  
Darus's discomfort.

"You're in the Tyrian Guard, aren't ya?"

Darus shifted awkwardly, "I am," and he looked down at the  
roll in his hand, "Why did you give me this?" asked Darus  
suddenly, looking sharply from the roll to Rickard.

Rickard looked right back at him, his smile gone.  
After a long pause he opened his mouth and shut it again.

Thoughtfully, he started, "Every day, twice a day,  
you walk past my shop. Once in the mornin', going one way, and  
once in the evenin', goin' the other. Always alone.  
Always with the same 'don't mess with me' look on your  
face," he paused again, "and always with the same sadness  
in your eyes. Why?" without pause, he continued, his words  
flowing faster, "I see other guards. Groups a'em going to  
the bar, or where ever, after their shifts are over.

You're never with any of them. A young, healthy, not  
half bad lookin'," Darus's eyes widened at that, and he  
started to stammer, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, but  
Rickard glared at him, "What? It's true- ya got a roguish  
thing goin' on with that scar that girls'd love if ya  
weren't tryin' so hard ta scare 'em away," he  
said pointedly.

"As I was sayin', a young, healthy, not half bad  
lookin' man who has never, in the near about, oh, year I've  
been seenin' him walk by my shop, gone out with friends. Not once!"

By that point he was almost shouting, although his  
expression hadn't really changed. Darus flinched and took a  
step back, looking away.

"I saw a young, healthy, and deeply lonely man.  
One suspicious of kindness, and unused to compliments. I've  
seen that every day, and today I decided to try and change  
that. That's why I gave ya the roll," Rickard finished, his voice  
soft and inviting.

Darus looked back to Rickard.

"I'm sorry. I am not used to kindness from freem- from  
other races," he stammered.

Understanding filled Rickard's eyes.

"You were a slave." It wasn't a question.

He really should have guessed that; there hadn't been  
many free mul before.

Darus nodded, and looked away, ashamed at his past.  
He felt a hand on his arm, and looked back, surprised.  
Rickard had placed his hand there, too short to put it on  
Darus's shoulder.

"Kid, I wantchya to know three things. Number one, " he said, counting  
off on his fingers, "not everyone who's been free their whole life is a bigot. I  
ain't, and others of us are good people too. Number two,  
you're young, and free, you should live like it. Number  
three, everyone needs friends, and I do mean _everyone_.  
Do _you_ have any?"

He looked deep into Darus's eyes, speaking quietly  
but with great meaning.

Darus stood still. Did he? He worked with the same two people  
every day, but he had never gotten to know either of them. Not that  
they hadn't tried, asking him to go out with them after their  
shift, or even just trying to start up a conversation with him,  
early on. He hadn't trusted it, so he had turned them down, and  
shut down every conversation. Eventually they had stopped trying.

It hadn't bothered him until now.

It had actually been a relief when they had stopped trying to  
befriend him. If he had learned anything in the Brickyards, it was  
that people were temporary, and it was best to live without relying  
on anyone but yourself.

He looked into Rickard's eyes. He was almost a total  
stranger, but he had been so kind. Of course, it was only a roll, but  
a roll was more kindness than he had ever been given in the  
Brickyard. Could he call Rickard a friend?

Brown eyes. Warmth, honesty, concern.

Slowly a smile crept onto Darus's face. It was weak,  
and felt strange, but it was there. Rickard returned the  
smile encouragingly.

"I think I have at least one, now. Maybe a few more,  
if I try, and it isn't too late."

Rickard grinned broadly, and squeezed his arm.

"I'm glad, Darus," he said, picked up the broom from where  
he had leaned it against the wall, and started sweeping  
again.

"Now go, and live," he told Darus with a wave.

Darus nodded thoughtfully, turned, and started walking  
again. This time, a little different.

* * *

**A/N:** In case you haven't noticed,  
there are/will be/might be  
some kind-of-divergences  
from the world/story canon when it  
comes to the time line and such. I've  
read the Prism Pentad books by  
the wonderful Troy Denning, but  
I'm not going by the timelines and canon  
set out in those books, or any of the other  
setting-specific books.

Rather shamefully, in fact, I'm just  
using the 4e (don't shoot me, previous edition elitists)  
Dark Sun Campaign Setting book,  
and a little online research.  
So there was a lot of room for my imagination  
to run free on how the setting works, because  
the setting book leaves a lot of room  
for the user to make up stuff. Then  
again, D&amp;D encourages the tweaking of canon  
to suit the individual user's needs.

Disclaimer: D&amp;D and the Dark Sun  
Campaign Setting don't belong to me,  
obviously.


	2. Chapter 2: The Templar and Guardswoman

Chapter 2: The Templar and The Guardswoman

Standing in the small courtyard of the guardhouse that  
served the area of the Caravan District directly around the  
Caravan Gate were two people. One was a tall, powerfully  
built mul woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties,  
and wore the uniform and armor of the Tyrian Guard. The  
other, a human man in his mid-forties, wore the black  
cassock of the templars.

The templar was an awkwardly built and unattractive man.  
He was tall and bony, built like some great, gangly  
bird, with long limbs and a long neck with a prominent  
Adam's apple. He had a long, narrow face, weak chin, thin,  
pale lips, and a razor sharp, beak-like nose. He wore his  
dark, greying hair cropped unusually short for a man of his  
class, and it was cut messily. He badly needed a shave, and  
his salt and pepper stubble was growing in patchily. His frayed  
black cassock did his complexion no favors, either. Instead  
of just being pale, it made him ghostly.

Truly, the only attractive feature of this bird of a  
man was, perhaps, his eyes. They were an unusually dark blue,  
with flecks of silver blended in, blurring into a  
thin ring of silver around his pupil. At the moment, the gaze of  
those eyes was upon the mul woman. She was tapping her foot  
impatiently, arms crossed, looking around the courtyard  
with a scowl upon her face.

With the familiarity of long friendship, he placed a hand on  
her arm in a soothing gesture. She threw down her arms,  
displacing his hand, and growled,

"Where the_ hell_ is he, Markus?" she snapped, turning  
to look at the templar.

The templar, Markus, shrugged, and made a_ calm down  
_gesture with his hands, pleading for her cooperation with  
his eyes.

"I will_ not_ calm down. If he's late, it'll be my on-  
time toosh that gets punished too, and not yours, you templar  
jackwagon."

Ignoring the expletives, and with an otherworldly  
calm, he looked into her golden eyes with his own. An aura of  
tranquility seemed to radiated from him, quietly  
testing her will, and for a long moment, she managed to  
hold his gaze stubbornly. She cracked, and with a sigh,  
dropped her head, her body relaxing. When Markus put his  
mind to it, it could be difficult to defy his will.

"You're right, Markus, of course you're right. He's  
never been late before, and there's still a few minutes  
before the stupid briefing that Sarge called. I don't even know  
why the hell we have to be briefed; we've been doing  
this shift for _ages_."

Markus smiled faintly, and he put his hand on her shoulder.  
He nodded once, and his hand lingered there, an  
almost uncertain look ghosting over his face.

The loud bang of the door hitting the wall announced the  
arrival of the original party in question.

Markus jumped, and pulled his hand sharply away from  
the woman. He settled himself immediately, leaving him  
as blank and unreadable as normal. The woman turned  
to see who had opened the door, and when she did,  
she dropped her hands to her hips and scowled.

"About time you got here, Darus." she said, or rather she  
started to say. Something was different about him,  
and it took her a few moments to realize what it was.

He was smiling. Darus, the serious, quiet, and least friendly  
kid she'd ever had to work with, was _smiling_. It wasn't a  
big smile, but it was more emotion than the kid had ever shown,  
that she had seen, at least.

It was a fleeting moment, for at the sound of her  
exasperation, the phantom of a smile vanished from  
his lips, returning them to their status quo of a  
blank-faced man and boy alongside a tiffed young  
woman.

If the guardswoman wanted to say anything about  
Darus's brief display, it would have to wait, for  
at that time, their sergeant arrived.

* * *

**AN**: Sorry about this taking so long,  
I went to an all-night D&amp;D game  
with some buddies of mine, and I've  
been sleeping the last twenty-four  
hours. That wasn't meant to be the  
end of this chapter, I should be  
posting more very soon. Unless ya'll  
like the shorter chapter.

Oh, and in case you haven't noticed,  
Markus isn't exactly your usual stuck-up,  
self-righteous templar jerk.

By the way, I'm using sergeant in the sense  
of the American police force, "**Sergeant:** A  
Sergeant is a police officer who is responsible  
of supervising a shift in relatively smaller police  
departments." (definition copy/pasted from  
the "hierarchystructure" website)


	3. Chapter 2, Part 2

**AN**: Sorry about the broken-up  
upload, here's the other two-thirds  
of Chapter 2. This chapter starts  
concurrently with the previous  
chapter, and then catches up.

* * *

Chapter 2, Part 2

Darus pushed open the front door of the guardhouse and  
stepped inside. He would have to hurry, he didn't want to be  
late for the briefing Sergeant Plorbys had called.  
He didn't understand why they needed a briefing, it would  
just be the standard "inspect and collect" duty at  
the gate, right?

He nodded at the half-elf manning the front desk, and  
she nodded back, eyes wide. She followed his path  
to the changing room with her head. That was odd, but  
Darus didn't have time to think about it.

Pushing open the door, he made swift progress to his  
storage chest. Pulling out the key he wore on a leather cord  
around his neck, he glanced around the room. Empty, just the  
way he liked it.

Darus unlocked the chest and pulled out his armor.  
Standard issue chitin; greaves, bracers, vambraces, gorget,  
pauldrons, cuirass, and faulds. In addition to that,  
there was a chitin hauberk, made of cleverly carved rings,  
sealed and secured with a powerful organic glue that bonded  
seamlessly with chitin, to form a solid ring and a strong  
shirt of armor. This went on over the long sleeved cotton  
shirt he was already wearing, which had very light  
padding on the chest, shoulders, and upper back. The hauberk  
hung to just over mid-thigh, and had elbow-length  
sleeves. Over the hauberk went a thin, sleeveless cotton  
shirt that hung to his waist, and over the top of  
it all went each piece of plate armor.

Despite the room being completely empty, he put on the  
remaining components of his uniform with his back  
to a corner. He didn't want to be caught off-guard by  
anything that might happen. Not that he was expecting  
anyone to attack him, it was simply habit.

His uniform now on his body, he quickly shut the chest and  
locked it. He crossed the room, and grabbed his trikal  
off the rack by the door to the courtyard. He paused a  
moment, and imagined that he was a gladiator, in his armor  
with a weapon in hand, about to enter the arena  
with thousands of screaming fans waiting for him.  
He smiled at the ridiculousness of the thought.

It was something he fantasized about a lot, though, because  
when he was very young he had wanted to be a  
gladiator. He had always believed that he was destined for  
the arena, he was a mul, and mul were always gladiators,  
right? Wrong. When he was ten, he and all the other  
young mul owned by his master had been tested by a trainer.  
The trainer had informed his master that training Darus for the  
arena would be a waste of money. Darus was too gentle, too  
giving, the trainer had said. So Darus had been beaten for  
his master's trouble, and sold to the Brickyard.

Still smiling at the image he had conjured, he pushed open the  
door, and stepped out into the morning light. He looked for  
the templar and the guardswoman he always worked with,  
and immediately spotted them standing in a  
shaded corner on the opposite side of the courtyard.  
Markus and Aisa were their names, he was pretty sure.

Markus jumped, and the both turned to look at him, surprised.  
Darus began to stride towards them, and Aisa started to say  
something, but before she could, Sergeant Plorbys walked out  
from under an archway.

The sergeant was a grey-haired half-elf, perhaps in his early fifties,  
and like all half-elves, age did little to weaken him. He was small man,  
but his narrow frame was wrapped in whipcord muscle.

At the sight of him, both Aisa and Darus fell in to the center  
of the courtyard with great speed, anything they may have said  
completely forgotten.

Markus followed at a more dignified pace. He wasn't technically  
a part of the Tyrian Guard; he was just on "loan" to this shift  
at the Caravan Gate because they needed someone who could  
read and write. Silently he stopped a few feet behind the pair  
of guards.

If a look could kill, the glare Sergeant Plorbys gave Markus as  
he slowly followed Aisa over would have not only killed Markus,  
but set the corpse on fire, and then erased him from existence.  
Plorbys couldn't do a damn thing, however, which amused Markus  
to no end. A moment after Markus's arrival, Sergeant Plorbys  
turned his attention to the two people he _was_ able  
to order around.

"Who can tell me why I asked each of you to show up early today?" he  
paused, waiting for answer. Aisa opened her mouth, eyes already  
beginning to roll, but Plorbys cut her off with a sigh.

"No, Guardswoman, it is not because I'm an impotent jackwagon  
who's trying to hide his insecurities by abusing what  
little power he has."

Aisa's mouth dropped open, and then she scowled, crossing her arms.  
Plorbys wasn't exactly expecting Markus or Darus to answer,  
so he shook his head, and sighed again.

"You know what, I'm just going to cut it short. It's the first day of  
a festival week, so expect some extra traffic through the gate,  
alright? Dismissed," he sighed, and with that final word, he spun  
around and left them standing in the courtyard.

* * *

**AN**: I didn't mention what festival  
(Highest Sun, Cooling Sun, or Soaring  
Sun) because I can't find any description  
anywhere of how each festival is celebrated  
in Tyr. Oh, and I imagine Plorbys with a sort  
of deep southern drawl.


End file.
